


Yield

by Ahsim



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: M/M, Take down play, consensual non consent, inferred masochism, inferred sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:25:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahsim/pseuds/Ahsim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The text was short and simple: 7:30, 48.  Heero read it in under a second.  After five, Heero crossed his legs at the knee to hide some of the rapid swelling." In which Trowa has particular needs, and Heero meets them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yield

Texts actually weren’t that unusual for Heero.  He normally got at least one—but more often a dozen—every day.  So he did little more than frown at the vibrating nuisance briefly over the edge of his laptop.

It was probably from Duo, who considered the work day entirely wasted if he didn’t share at least one bit of inanity with him.  “Witty” one-liners and rambling stories that Heero knew Duo, clever as he was, had found on the internet.  He made a point to occasionally remind Duo that their laptops were _not_ operating on a fully-isolated system and that Une would _not_ appreciate such blatant abuses of preventer-internet privileges. 

Occasionally, he was nice about it.  Often, he threatened to print out “logs” and pin them to every corkboard in the building.  But usually, Heero hacked the web history at the end of the week and deleted/recoded questionable entries.  He would never tell Duo, of course, because Duo’s ego swelled enough on its own, but the other pilot had an uncanny ability to know when Heero needed brief, amusing distraction.  He assumed it had something to with Duo “being his best friend.”  Duo’s words, not his.   

If it meant that he could smile privately for a second while dealing with local precincts, he’d silently acknowledge the title.

Heero glared at the email he was writing. The pilot in him told him to finish it, to regulations drawn up by Une, the commissioner, and a squadron of lawyers. He needed cooperation and access. Now. And no insignificant chief of police was going to stop him. The pilot in him, however, was also slightly concerned that he had been compromised by the increasing presence of the human in him. He might not be able to stop himself from swearing at the old, blustering fool

Heero saved the email and shut the laptop.  He’d finish the reprimand after a brief smile and some regulated breathing. 

Heero stretched until his neck and one of his shoulders popped before reaching for the cellphone at the corner of his desk.  He pushed from the desk, a mental sign he was not to think about work for the next few minutes, and flipped open his phone. 

The text was short and simple: _7:30, 48._   Heero read it in under a second.  After five, Heero crossed his legs at the knee to hide some of the rapid swelling. 

The code had been Trowa’s idea.  Direct communication—or worse _planning_ —had made their earliest attempts absolute disasters.  But they managed, if only because Trowa was astoundingly stubborn when it came to effectively presenting his needs.

It was an efficient, almost elegant solution.  A time to start and a time to end.   Creative freedom at its finest.  The limits had already been decided (and in some cases, like the kitchen knives, renegotiated), so all that was left was the planning and the final decision of when, within the next forty-eight hours, he would act. 

Heero knew for a fact that Trowa was not in his office.  He was three floors down, in one of the conference rooms, lecturing.  He had replaced the previous head of espionage—an idiot the board liked because he was easy to trace and easier to control—only last month, after the idiot’s ineptitude got three operatives killed on assignment.  Heero knew that Trowa had an enormous mess to deal with; Trowa now often discussed the work with unusual amounts of swearing.  The operatives “best suited” for undercover and infiltration were little better than unruly children: too arrogant, too stubborn, too insulted about being instructed and ordered by their age inferior.

Trowa had finally received clearance from Une to “instruct” them in one of the combat halls for the next week, cameras off.  He was still waiting on approval to demonstrate proper disguise and blending techniques by _entering_ the division the week after. 

Heero knew Trowa was downstairs, surrounded by preventers who thought him too young for their respect.  And he knew that a particular swatch of pink burned across Trowa’s cheeks whenever he thought about the game.  Had Trowa shown them momentary weakness?  Had he dismissed them or step outside the room himself in his frustration, firing off the text message in hopes of catharsis?  Or had he dared to message Heero in front of them?  Had he, during a lull in the lecture or some group discussion, allowed them to see the brief, delicate flush?

Heero snapped the phone shut and set it beside his laptop.  Pulling his chair back, he returned to his email.  With half of his active mind preoccupied with planning, he’d run no risks of swearing at the commissioner.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At the last traffic light, Trowa checked his watch for an unprecedented fifth time in an hour.  Ten minutes until seven-thirty.  Ten minutes until Heero was sleeping on the couch for a week.  That is, if Trowa didn’t just decide to change the locks on him. 

Heero would pick them, of course.  He wasn’t bad at it, and Trowa couldn’t be bothered with finding, and paying for, anything substantial enough to keep him out for longer than a few minutes.  But it was the gesture that mattered. 

Of course, if he wanted to be really obvious, Trowa could just deny him for an undisclosed period of time.  Heero had developed a taste for sex that rivaled his, so it would at least be effective.  The problem, however, was that Trowa would end up punishing himself.  He liked sex; he liked sex with Heero immensely.

Locks it was. 

Trowa knew he was being ridiculous, and that the day he changed the locks on Heero—or responded in some other equally petty, equally dramatic way to any issue they were having—would be the same day he let Duo ride his motorcycle in high heels.  That didn’t stop the inactivity from rankling.  Yes, they had been interrupted, even cancelled, before.  They were Preventers, with long hours at the office and longer ones in the field.  Heero could disappear for days on end for assignments.  Trowa, for weeks.  Work always could, and often did, get in the way.  It was an unfortunate fact, unpleasant but inevitable. 

This time, however, it hadn’t.  They were preoccupied, of course.  Heero was in the early stages of a political sting, and Trowa was playing nursery school with two dozen potential spies.  They came home late, slept little, ate even less, and shared brief, intense moments in the shower.  But this wasn’t _busy_.  The McGuire case had been busy.  They were never home during the McGuire case, and Trowa wasn’t particularly interested in sex at the office.  Now they still had weekends and evenings.  They weren’t pulling seventy-two hour shifts or napping just before dawn because they had spent most of the night at a computer.  They had _time_.

And Heero hadn’t used it.

Trowa couldn’t ask after it.  He had designed the rules himself, for optimum adrenaline.  Asking if he had plans, if he had even gotten the text message, would ruin everything.

Trowa didn’t want to ask for it, because there was still a part of him that feared Heero would say no.  He was well aware of how unusual his needs were, and he would never forget that initial look of concern—or was it disgust—that flickered across Heero’s face before he asked for clarification. 

Trowa would have to wait for him to get home before asking him.

Heero almost always worked late Friday nights, doing whatever last minute work he deemed “necessary” for his full enjoyment of the weekend.  Occasionally Trowa did the same, but usually he left only an hour past shift’s end since it was just enough time to pick up dinner and still beat him home.  He expected it every week, but Heero still smiled when he walked in the door and saw Trowa sitting by the coffee table with their favorite Thai dishes and a bottle of wine. 

At least he could still look forward to that. 

Trowa pulled into the empty driveway of the rancher they shared.  The days were still short this early in spring, so he could barely make out the porch and trees.  He heard a soft creak as wind gently pushed the hammock in the back yard.  Trowa pulled into his usual spot next to the porch, cut the ignition, and tugged off his helmet.  He ran a hand through his hair once before tucking the helmet beneath his arm.  He walked slowly to the steps, listening over the faint sound of scraping gravel.

Old habits and all.

He should have noticed the problem before he even unlocked the door.  Their porch light was on a timer, to better suit their slight paranoia.  On Fridays, it was set to turn on at seven.  But Trowa was preoccupied and didn’t notice the power was out until after he had toed off his shoes and flipped the porch light. 

He flipped it twice before swearing.  “God damned breaker.”

Trowa closed the door and felt his way through the living room, around the end table and leather armchair, and towards the dining room.  He patted the air until he felt the varnished back of one of the chairs.  Trowa set his helmet down before carefully removing his backpack and setting it on the table.  He had earlier swerved out of the way of a semi blowing a red light, hard enough that he might have dislodged the flimsy plastic lids protecting their food.  His backpack reeked of spices but felt dry when he reached in for the plastic bag.

Over the faint crinkle of plastic, Trowa thought he heard a whisper of cloth.  Then as he set the food on the table, he was sure he heard a chink of metal.  Resisting the urge to look over his shoulder, Trowa pushed the bag and backpack away.

He had expected hands on his shoulders, not a wide length of leather across his eyes.

Trowa thrust his leg back, pivoting on the ball of his foot to give his elbow lethal momentum.  He caught the solid shadow, by the sounds of it, in the face.  He stumbled back a step, giving Trowa enough time and room to grab and swing his helmet.  The assailant ducked, the heavy red plastic sailed over his head, and Trowa found his arcing arm caught in a hard grip. 

He twisted it behind Trowa’s back hard enough to make Trowa’s fingers spasm.  The helmet dropped.  Trowa tried to kick it back into his shins but the assailant caught it at the edge and shoved it away.  Snarling, Trowa arched, trying to get enough leverage, and some shirt, for a throw.  Fingers snaked into his hair and tugged his head sideways before forcing him over the table, the back of the chair cutting into ribs and winding him.

Pressing Trowa’s head to the wood, he leaned over Trowa’s squirming back.  “Yield."

Trowa stilled, shivering lightly as the familiar rumble sent shivers of pleasure down his spine.  Heero’s breath ghosted over the nape of his neck, curling warmly around his ear.  “Yield,” he ordered, tugging hard on his hair.  Trowa hissed.

The third time Heero pulled, Trowa leaned into the jerk and bit at him. 

The flash of teeth had the desired effect: Heero lurched back, freeing both back and head.  Trowa snaked his arm around his back, found the vice crushing his wrist and dug his fingers into the nearest pressure points.  Heero hissed.  Grabbing Trowa’s brutally digging hand, he yanked him back.  Trowa allowed two stumbling steps, just enough to be clear of the table, before hooking Heero’s leg just below the knee.

The fall was hard enough to loosen Heero’s hands.  Trowa twisted out of his grip, rolling away before Heero could grab again.  He got one good kick to his stomach before scrambling to his feet.

Trowa was just outside the kitchen when Heero caught him again.

Hand clamped around his wrist again, Heero thrust him back against the wall.  Trowa grunted as the hard edge of the doorframe dug into his spine.  Heero tried to pin the caught wrist but quickly realized that, thanks to his height, Trowa had significant advantage against a frontal assault with his back against the wall.  He broke out almost twice.  On the third attempt, Heero gave him just enough space to yank him around and back against the wall, chest first.

Trowa gasped sharply as the hard edge dug into his erection, the pain both brutal and delicious.  Then Heero was at his back, holding his wrist to the wall with an arm around his throat.  He rocked against him, grinding Trowa’s hips into the corner.  Trowa, vision blackening at the edges, bit back a cry.

“Yield,” he growled into his ear.  Trowa groaned.  Heero bucked hard, forcing Trowa’s hips up.  Trowa arched back from the wall, head nearly falling to Heero’s shoulder as his legs spread around the wide corner.  Heero turned to him.  He could hear him panting in his ear, feel the hot rush against the skin.

“Yield,” he purred.  Heero’s strong fingers slid from his wrists, pulling at his skin as they ran up to rest between Trowa’s splayed fingers. 

Trowa, lips parted as he panted, caught a soft glow from Heero’s eyes.  Unidentifiable light from either outside or his imagination.  Heero tilted his head towards him and caught his lip between his teeth.  Trowa groaned and the teeth left, replaced by a tongue both demanding and oddly gentle.  Trowa tasted blood and shivered.

He waited, tangling their tongues and rocking against the corner and Heero’s hips, until Heero broke the kiss panting.  Trowa flexed his fingers and licked softly at his swollen lips.  Fair warning before he slammed his hands into the wall and pushed them both back. 

Heero somehow managed to tangle their legs together.  Or else Trowa was getting clumsy with his lust.  He landed on top of Heero, who allowed himself to be winded for less than a second before trying to pin him.  Trowa squirmed and bucked, wrenching his arms out of every hold, groaning as Heero’s erection brushed against his ass and thighs.  Heero wrapped a leg around his knees.  The other snaked around his thighs, the heel landing hard between them.  Trowa bit out a curse.

And then metal chinked again, and the pleasure didn’t ebb fast enough for Trowa recognize it in time.

Heero got one hand cuffed easily. The other he fought for. It was a short fight. With his legs wrapped tight around Trowa’s, Heero only took a couple of hits before twisting Trowa onto his stomach. Trowa clawed at the floor for purchase. Heero yanked both of his arms back. Trowa hit the carpet hard.

“Yield,” he spat, yanking hard on the short length of chain that connected Trowa’s bound hands.

Trowa gasped into the carpet.  His body, flushed and aching, hummed with the adrenaline.  His pulse sang against his temples, his heart thudded against the floor.  And his erection strained against his uniform, aching with a pain that had so little to do with cruel rubbings against the wall.

Heero twisted the chain in his hand and pulled, dragging Trowa up a few inches.  Trowa’s head pitched forward.  He howled when Heero thrust his knee between his legs.

“Heero, please!”

Heero leaned over his back, knee pressing hard against his weeping erection and balls.  He licked up the side of Trowa’s neck as he choked.

“You are stubborn.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He hated being right sometimes. 

Heero leaned back against the leg of the table, panting as his body ached pleasantly.  Near his feet, Trowa let out a low, whining moan that sent a spike of pleasure straight to his groin.

Which, stiff as it was already, was not quite as pleasant.

Heero had expected that the delay would heighten Trowa’s pleasure. Trowa longed for the surprise and adrenaline of controlled assault. So it seemed almost natural that striking at the last possible moment, after giving absolutely no indication of interest or preparation, would drive him mad.

He hadn’t expected Trowa to hit headspace that fast.

Trowa almost came the second his pants were undone.  Heero had thumbed the heavily weeping head for only a second before yanking his pants to his knees and giving him the preparation Trowa despised but Heero needed.  Trowa came on the first thrust, stayed up through the third, and then collapsed at the fourth.

Heero never fucked him while he was in headspace.  Ever.

Trowa had been quiet for almost ten minutes, which was unusual.  Then again, so was the intensity.  If he wasn’t shifting in another five, he would let himself be concerned.  Right now he had to convince his legs to get up and take him to the breaker. 

Trowa had at least shifted by the time Heero slowly climbed up the basement stairs.  And when he turned on the dining room lights, he whined and turned his face into the carpet.  Good signs. 

Heero lingered at the end of the table, holding onto the wood as he eyed his work.  Trowa was less bloody this time, since they banned knives or other sharp utensils.  Only a couple flecks of blood on his wrists from the cuffs biting his skin.  Those scratches would heal by Monday.  The bruising would be worse.  Already his wrists and forearms were coloring: long splotches of red and purple from Heero’s fingers.  If he lifted his shirt, Heero was sure he’d find long lines of bruising where Trowa hit the table and wall. 

Worse, his throat was red.  Obviously, Heero hadn’t been watching his pressure enough.  And Trowa’s cheek was probably scarlet from rug burn.  The face was a hard limit, although Heero thought it might be for his benefit rather than Trowa’s, as Trowa didn’t seem like he would be particularly bothered about going to work openly bruised—

Trowa shifted, as if he could hear Heero thinking too loudly, bringing his hands to rest near his chin.  He turned his face from the carpet and regarded him with one emerald eye.

And then he smiled.  Just a small lifting his lips, but it made his body glow. 

Heero walked carefully and sat back down against the table leg.  Trowa hated being tended to too soon afterwards, so Heero simply reached out and stroked his shoulder.  Trowa let out a noise nothing short of a purr as he flexed and stretched beneath his touch, the lean lines of his body pulling beautifully as he moved. 

He shifted closer, cuffs clinking softly, and wrapped his hands around Heero’s ankle lightly.  He stroked the hard tendon with his thumb.

“I thought,” Trowa said after a moment of silent, luxuriant stroking.  He paused, hands around his leg and Heero had to dig his thumb into his skin again to get him to continue.  “I thought you forgot—”

“You were supposed to.”

Trowa eyed him through the auburn hair that tumbled over his face.  He smiled a little more.  Trowa rolled onto his back, giving Heero a momentary glimpse of his roughened cheek.

“I think I got carried away.”

“I think you did.  Do it again.”

“Your face is red.”

“I enjoyed it.”

“Your cheek is almost shredded.”

“Is not,” he huffed.  Trowa gripped Heero’s knee and used it as gentle leverage to pull himself up.  His head dipped back, exposing the long, red and pale throat for a moment.  Then Trowa was leaning forward.  He cupped Heero’s chin.  “Consider it payback for this.”

“You didn’t know it was me.”

“For a second.  I thought you were at work,” he said, licking his lips.

“I made Duo stay.”

“What’d you tell him?”

Heero shrugged.  “That I had to attack you.”

Chuckling softly, Trowa leaned forward and licked at the congealing blood of his split lip.  “Don’t use that too often, or he’ll figure it out.”

“And what?  Out us?  He’d have to run operations by himself.”

“He might ask you for pointers,” Trowa warned with a nip.

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

Trowa hummed.  Shifting forward, he draped his arms around Heero’s neck. The cuff still locked around Trowa's wrist brushed against his neck, the other against his back, as Trowa sucked lightly at his lip.  Heero groaned.  His knee shifted.  Trowa took it as an invitation to slid carefully between his thighs.

“Dinner.”

“On the table,” he mumbled.

“Getting cold.”

“We have this lovely thing,” he murmured, sweeping his tongue across his lips before licking a smooth path down his jaw.  “called a microwave.”

“I’m hungry,” he growled.  Trowa nipped at the flesh beneath his ear, knee sliding between his legs and pressing so very gently against his erection. 

“I noticed,” he purred. Trowa, leaning his head against his shoulder and stroking the back of his neck, moved his knee carefully. Heero groaned. “Untie me.”

Heero waited just long enough before pulling Trowa to the ground.  Trowa’s hands thudded back against the carpet as he gasped.  Heero, straddling his hips, pressed them down. 

“Not a chance.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written July 26, 2012. Cross-posted on ahsimwithsake.tumblr.com


End file.
